you are the only one who can break your heart
by poisonrationalitie
Summary: in spite of everything else he faces, harry makes the most difficult decision of his life.


**A/N: For the Hogwarts Forum, Term 11 Assignment 4, First Aid Task #5 - Write About a Broken Heart**

**Warnings: Self-harm (one-off)**

Harry didn't cry much. Maybe it was learned from years at the Dursleys', when any sort of attention he brought onto himself was punished. His eyes burned, his chest ached, and he felt as if he might plummet through the ground, but he didn't cry. She hadn't cried, and she was the one being broken up with.

He didn't sleep the first night. He stared at the ceiling, remembering the strawberry scent of her hair and the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. Each memory was a knife's twist to the heart, and he refused to stop. Maybe he deserved it. Harry hoped he was alone in the pain; that she would move on, that she would find someone else, that she wouldn't waste herself on worrying about him. That was the thing about Ginny; he could be almost certain that she wouldn't mope. He could be a moper himself, and it didn't work for both of them to be so inclined.

In his dreams, he still saw her. They'd link fingers and he'd walk her to class; they'd be on the Quidditch pitch, racing to the snitch, and her red hair would whip around in the wind. There was no Voldemort, no exams. Just them, and however much time they wanted. It wasn't capped as it had been in real life, there wasn't an end foretold. He woke up reaching for a person that wasn't there, might never be there, if this all ended the way he thought it would. And for most of the summer, his chest was hollow.

Proximity only made things worse. Moving past her on the stairs, only able to say "excuse me," before she was gone was like hell. There were so many times where he could've draped an arm over her shoulder, could've pecked her on the cheek, could've shared a look or a smile. They were laughing briefly over the dinner table and locked eyes. He looked away first, and went to the bathroom shortly after, pouring cold water over his face with his hands. _You broke up with her. It's your fault. You don't get to be upset about this. _Harry didn't cry much, but he thought he might've then, clutching the sides of the sink with water dripping off his chin.

On his birthday, he thought he might die. The feeling of her lips on his squeezed his heart so tightly he was certain he was going to have a heart attack. Seeing her eyes glitter as he left shattered him. He found himself in the bathroom later and slammed his fist into the sink, revelling in the pain. Harry didn't cry much, but he cried then, her face burned onto the back of his eyelids, the feeling of her lips imprinted. He threw himself into the shower and tilted his head back, turning the water to boiling. Had she really thought there might be someone else? That he would be gallivanting around the country and hooking up with strangers and forgetting about her?

And then there was the wedding. He had to pretend he didn't care, pretend her golden dress and her wink wouldn't be in his dreams for the next few months. Couldn't Krum go back to Hermione? It lodged a worry deep in the shards of his heart. Ginny was pretty and brave and sporty and funny and she was the kind of person people wanted around in times like these, and he had given her up. She would have more opportunity than him to find someone new. He trusted her, of course he trusted her, but it didn't stop the spirals in his mind.

They were sitting in the drawing room of 12 Grimmauld Place, shuffling through ideas once again.

"Hermione, what's the date?" Ron asked, frowning at a bit of parchment he held. Hermione leaned over and grabbed a small calendar she'd obviously been using. She ran her finger across it.

"The eleventh," Hermione said. And then, all three of them: "Ginny's birthday."

Out of everything, maybe that was what hurt the most. He'd been at the Weasleys' for several of Ginny's birthdays, long before they were dating. Ron and Hermione and Harry all shared a sort of silent grief for their fourth member, a sister and friend and girlfriend (_ex, _he corrected himself) and someone who had taken on Voldemort once before and won. Harry was the first to stand and excuse himself, trying not to run, trying not to let the tears fall prematurely. He locked himself in one of the over large cupboards the Black family had been fond of (and that he rather wish the Dursleys had had in place of the measly one beneath the stairs) and leaned against the wall, caring little and less about the spiders. Harry cried.


End file.
